A Diagnosis

I walk into the waiting room, check in with the receptionist who acts as if taking care of the schedule is the last thing she wants to do that day and is busy looking in a cabinet at the right side of her desk. I catch the tail end of a conversation that she is having on the phone and learn she is tearing apart her office space looking for instant coffee. I write down my name on a clipboard she pushed in my direction; without looking at me, she says, “Take a seat. Your doctor will call you.”

I walk over to a chair against the far wall and sit down. There are red and blue and yellow plastic and wooden toys scattered on the floor and table for those patients who have kids. It doesn’t smell sterile like a medical clinic, but it smells stale: no windows and no natural air ventilation. Old issues of People, Woman’s Day, and Outdoor Magazine are on a table next to my chair.

The door to the doctors’ offices is locked, and from this side, the one I am on, someone must buzz me in. Doctor safety. That locked door reminds me that I am sitting in the space of the unpredictable, the unruly, the unsafe, the dangerous and we must have a locked door between them and us. I am them. I have been them since I was in my twenties, and before that, I passed as us. Us, what? I don’t know. Us not crazy I guess. My mind wanders back to a few years ago when I was at the midnight service on Christmas Eve.

The pastor of the church I attended was well connected and very powerful politically in our community, and he was loved by the congregation. Before and after each of his sermons, all the congregants vied for his attention. That night, while I was sitting in the balcony with my family on my favorite Christian holiday of the year, I listened as he read out the community events. He announced a rummage sale in January; a potluck put on by the Methodist Women’s Group. Bible study, and so on. Then as he was finishing up, he told a joke, “What songs do those who are bipolar sing at Christmas?” I didn’t hear his answer because I was fighting back the tears. “What songs do the schizophrenics sing at Christmas? Do You Hear What I Hear?” He went on, but the rest of the service was a blur to me. I can’t quite accept that the pastor of the largest church in town where we were living made fun of the mentally ill.

The psychiatrist, Katie, comes through the door and motions me in. I step into her small office and take the chair near the large window that takes up most of the back wall. She says, “Just one minute.” She leaves me sitting there to take in her workspace. There are no pictures of children or partners – a scarcity of personal items I have come to expect from therapists’ and psychiatrists’ offices – at least those who keep up good boundaries with their clients. Katie has mentioned being married but never mentioned children although she is more than visibly pregnant at least seven months. She walks back in and says, “I have bad news.” My mind floats away for a moment:

It could be any night of the week in any city or town in the United States. The television is on; it’s the nightly news. Text scrolls across the screen, BREAKING NEWS. There has been another shooting, and before any information is confirmed the anchor starts to speculate about the shooter’s mental health. They may not say it now, but during the evening, someone will say the words mentally ill. You could bet your paycheck on it. The only way this scenario gets avoided is if the shooter is from the Middle East. In that case, people will still speculate about mental health, but there will be more of a focus on terrorism. Every mass shooting is terrorism, like it or not. But it’s not all mental illness. It rarely is.

The pause is over, but before she says what the bad news is, she begins questioning me about my history. “When were you diagnosed, bipolar?” Katie asks. “When I was twenty-eight,” I say. “You are how old now?” she asks. “I am forty-one.” “Well, that is a long time to live with an incorrect diagnosis. At first, we thought you had schizoaffective disorder, but you don’t, you have paranoid schizophrenia. I’m sorry.” And that is it. That is the end of our session. I say thank you, although I’m not sure that is appropriate. I say I’ll make an appointment in a few weeks. She stands up, reaches for the doorknob, and walks me to the locked door, but when I am on this side, it easily opens. It is that other side, to which I am returning to with this new information that has me worried.

While I pass the waiting room, my mind races about all of the years I read about the famous people with bipolar disorder. All the years I believed my mental illness was tied to heightened creativity. All the things I have read about the successful people living with the same diagnosis as me. Bipolar was a part of my identity. I related to it. I owned it. I accepted it. I shared it with close friends. After the pastor told his jokes in church, I even went up to him after we sang Silent Night in the courtyard holding candles and said, “Your joke about the mentally ill; I have bipolar disorder. If the statistics are correct, I am not the only one in the church who has it. If we aren’t welcome here, where are we welcome?” He stared at me and gave me a smile that came across not as an “I’m sorry” it was more like pure pity.

I step outside into the Southern California sunlight. Today, like most days, it is bright. I leave the building. This psychiatric clinic I was in, is well hidden. It is at the end of a dead-end street; five blocks over is the hospital, two blocks in one direction and three in another is my primary care physician’s office. I had walked to Katie’s office, and I would walk home. I could call my husband, but I don’t know how to tell him that what we have lived through one month ago that had lasted six months is due to paranoid schizophrenia and not bipolar disorder. We are new to this city. We have no family and no friends here. Before we moved, we had a whole network of people who we could call, count on, talk to, drink with, hike with, play racquetball with, have lunch with – here it is the two of us. Who can we tell that bipolar has left our lives and paranoid schizophrenia has taken its place?

As I continue to walk toward home I think about my years as a social worker; I know that most of the people who are talking to voices only they can hear, and people only they can see, have schizophrenia. So many people living on the street, dirty, hungry, shelterless, we have more in common than our humanity; we have the same illness. The very thing that probably drove them to the streets is eating at me as well. But then there is Nash, the guy in A Beautiful Mind who won a Nobel Prize and had schizophrenia.

As I walk past the houses, I hardly notice my favorite colors in California; the bright pinks, the dark purple of the bougainvillea. My favorite fragrance, jasmine, fills the air. I have at least a mile more to go before reaching our apartment. Now I know why I heard the voices: God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. Now I know why I thought I was a healer and baked three cakes a day for over a month and gave them to the neighbors every afternoon,  the hallways smelling like a bakery. I was once told I had bipolar disorder with psychotic features. The psychotic features part seemed frightening, but I had lived twelve years with the bipolar part. I understood it. As I continue walking, I pass the 7-11 where the homeless men and women hang out. “A thin line between you and me,” I say out loud.

As I continue to walk I think of all the books I have read by parents with a mentally ill child, and so many of them say the same thing, “At least they don’t have the dreaded schizophrenia.” I went to a writer’s conference, and the panelists were discussing creating character that had a “different” view of reality. One woman on the panel had bipolar disorder, and she said, “At least I don’t have schizophrenia!” Her comment was so out of place, no one was questioning her, or accusing her, or even addressing her, but I guess she wanted us to know there is something worse than bipolar, there is, of course, schizophrenia.

I walk into the lobby of our apartment building; the apartment manager is there. We say hi to each other, and she talks to me as I pass her and go left toward our door. Once inside, I sit on the couch. How do you tell the man who recently spent six months with a psychotic wife, and who feels as if he just got his old wife, the one he has been married to for almost ten years, back? I look at the clock. My husband will be home any minute, and as always, I won’t keep anything from him. I plan on telling him as soon as possible. Shortly after, I hear the keys jingle in the lock and in walks my tired, worn out, but grateful to have his wife back, husband. Before he can even take his light jacket off, I say, “I saw the psychiatrist today. She said I have paranoid schizophrenia.” “What does that even mean?” he asks.

I wish I could tell him what I will learn later, that one percent of the world’s population has schizophrenia. In the United States, that is approximately three and a half million people. It is the leading cause of disability. The Treatment Advocacy Center reports that half of the people shot and killed by police have a mental illness. Mentally ill people fill our streets and jails. Schizophrenia is the most widely stigmatized and misunderstood of all the mental illnesses.

I stand up from the couch. I cross the space between my husband and me, and we hug each other. We hold on to each other tighter than we ever have. Something new and scary and unpredictable has entered our lives, and we feel lost in our new city, with my new diagnosis. I cry, “If it wasn’t for you, I could be any of those people on the street right now!” “I’ll find you,” he says. “I’ll always find you, and when I do, I’ll wait for you to come back to me. I know you will always come back to me.” I let out a sob, and he says, “One diagnosis or the other, you are the same woman who kissed me goodbye as I left for work this morning. Nothing but the name of your illness has changed. Don’t cry and don’t worry; we have lived with this for years. What is the difference? It’s only a name.”

 

 

 

 

Bridging the Divide

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The past two years have been surreal. I feel like reality is fluid. Reality used to be full of hard facts, things we could easily prove. Now, people we are supposed to trust throw conspiracy theories and “alternative facts” around regularly. Our country is changing at such a dizzying speed, and much of it is shocking, and some of it is alarming. One thing is for sure, as a group, as citizens, as a nation we are divided, and those divisions are causing people to feel hostile and angry. It is as though everyone is on the verge of snapping.
I discovered something, possibly one of the few things I can do to bring generosity, kindness, concern, love, goodness, friendliness, and all the positive things we can feel between two people back and that is to go small. I thought about it during breakfast this morning.
My husband and I had breakfast at a local hotel.  When we arrived, the whole room was loud, and every table was full. People were cutting in the buffet line, talking on video conferencing, having to raise their voices to hear their table mates. We learned from our server that ninety people eating in the restaurant were a part of a tour group. The people on tour were on a time limit, so it is easy to understand why they were in a hurry, not waiting in line, etc. but the impact this had on the servers as this person and that person asked for water, or coffee was noticeable.
Every time our server went by, we asked if she was okay. We told her it looked very stressful. We thanked her for everything she brought us and said we hoped her day started to look up. It was evident that our concern for her was going a long way because she made sure to come back to our table frequently to ask if we needed anything, or wanted anything.
My husband and I said working at a buffet when a large group comes in must be very hard. We didn’t see a single person tip their servers. We know from being on tours that the head of the tour should leave a big tip for all the servers to share, but there is no guarantee that that is the custom everywhere.
We decided to leave our server a larger than usual (about double) tip to make up for all the running around she had to do and for putting up with chaos with a smile on her face. When she received our tip, she was so grateful.
As we walked along the waterfront after our breakfast, I told my husband that the only thing I can think of to help out people right now is to go small – make every interaction, every conversation, every greeting, every time I talk or see another person an opportunity to show love and kindness. The only hope I see for rebuilding our relationships and communities and crossing this vast angry divide is to go small and take it one person at a time.

I know we can be the friendly and generous people we have a reputation of being if we heal each other one interaction at a time.
I’m going small, and hoping others will join me and that it can make all the difference.

Mental Illness (Brain Diseases) in the News

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Over the past two weeks, the public learned of three celebrities who are, or were, living with bipolar disorder, and rather than the media using this as the perfect time to educate people about mental illness, the cause of it, the symptoms of it, the available treatment options, many people fell back on stigma.
Many people questioned how Kate Spade could be so selfish as to take her life when she would be leaving behind a daughter, and I read a lot of misunderstanding about her “having everything.” These statements assume that Kate Spade was in her “right mind.”
Depression is not only the thief of joy it is a liar. Depression tells many people that their loved ones would be better off without them. Depression is more than just a feeling that a jog, trip to the spa, or a lunch with friends, can help someone overcome. It is a chemical imbalance in the brain. It is not weakness, just like schizophrenia, it is a brain disease.
I heard a report that Kate had been self-medicating with alcohol for some years and that she didn’t feel like she could get help because of the impact that attention would have on her brand. That is the stigma, and it costs us the lives of people. The tragedy that ended Kate’s life might have been different if we were more educated, accepting, and open about the realities of mental illness.
On the other end of this, is Kayne West admitting that at 39 he received the diagnosis of bipolar disorder and that bipolar disorder is his superpower. I don’t know the details of Kayne’s illness, but I do know what romanticizing mental illness is and what it sounds like and that is what Kayne is doing. Having received a diagnosis of bipolar disorder in my twenties, the first thing I did was to read about all the “creative geniuses” who have and had it.
I thought that my creativity was a symptom of bipolar disorder. All these years later, and with a diagnosis of schizophrenia now, I don’t believe my creativity comes from my illness. I think I would have been far more successful in this life if I didn’t have to manage and deal with a brain disease – it impacts me every day, and it is disruptive and hinders me from my full potential.
Then there was Rosanne Barr and her racist tweet. I am sorry that Roseanne Barr has bipolar disorder, I am sorry for every single person, famous, or homeless (it doesn’t matter) who has to deal with the consequences of a brain disease, but Rosanne made mental illness look like a character flaw. Being bipolar doesn’t excuse racism, and it doesn’t create it either. Bipolar disorder can hinder impulse control, cause disordered thinking, cause delusions or strange beliefs, but a diagnosis doesn’t automatically mean you will be a racist – that has to do with character and personality and isn’t a symptom I have heard of regarding any mental illness.
I don’t know everything about mental illness, statistics and my experience are all I have to form conclusions. I do know that when mental illness is in the news this much that the media rarely helps us out with educational and stigma-busting information.

 

Some New Information (to me) About Schizophrenia

I watched a show on UCSD Television about schizophrenia. (Link here  )

The professor giving the lecture was from UCLA (I think) and he was presenting his and other researcher’s findings. The two most interesting things he presented (in my opinion) were that schizophrenia is both a brain disease and on a spectrum similar to autism. The other most fascinating thing he discussed is the similarities between a brain with schizophrenia and a brain that does not have the disease (they called it a “normal” brain).

I was surprised to hear that schizophrenia is on a spectrum. I had heard that before (in fact one of the readers of this blog brought it up) but I didn’t know that it was starting to be established and accepted in the medical community. I think this is great news because it explains and helps people understand why schizophrenia looks different in different people.

The research that the doctors/scientists did on the normal brain and the brain that had schizophrenia showed them that there are several areas of a brain with schizophrenia that are severely disabled compared to a normal brain. For instance, the part that helps people determine facial expressions and the part that helps people determine social cues. But the brain with schizophrenia was a little better at one test, and the researcher said it is important to focus on the strengths of people with schizophrenia. I really appreciated that comment.

The presenter listed the diagnostic criteria for schizophrenia (of which you have to have two to have the illness). Some of the things on the list were delusions, hallucinations, disordered speech, disordered thought, and I think a couple of others. I have the delusions and hallucinations but not the disordered speech, and I don’t think I have the disordered thought.

The presentation was also about symptoms of schizophrenia, for example, lack of social motivation (which I definitely have) and the CDC (Center for Disease Control) just came out with a study that being lonely or socially isolated is more problematic to your health than smoking, obesity, and several other lifestyle issues.

I have been working on trying to be healthier for several months now, and I have changed my diet, started exercising more, keeping gratitude lists, upped my productivity, etc. but it looks like I am going to have to try to join a writer’s group, or make plans to see friends more often in order to really up my overall health.

The video is worth watching but of course, the part that overwhelmed me a little was how hard people with schizophrenia have to work just to have the same quality of life as someone without the illness. And even then, most of us have things we manage but do not overcome. As Kermit, the Frog would say, “It is not easy being green.”

 

A Possible Source of Anxiety

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In the city where I live in California, we voted to ban plastic bags. The plastic bags were ending up in the Pacific Ocean, in storm drains, and on the beach, threatening wildlife and causing damage to the environment. I have been concerned about the environment and lessening my footprint on it for over thirty years (my first husband was an environmental scientist) so, I was 100% behind banning the bags.

It turns out that banning plastic bags increased the cases of Hepatitis A in our city. How are the two related? People who live on the streets and in encampments were using the plastic bags as toilets and then disposing of them. When plastic bags were no longer readily available people started eliminating on the street and in places where people walk, sit, sleep and walk their dogs.

Fecal contamination spreads hepatitis, and the best way to prevent it is to wash your hands frequently. People on the streets don’t have access to hand washing stations (they do now). So, the lack of a proper way to dispose of waste combined with no accessible hand washing stations created an epidemic in our city. It wasn’t just the lack of plastic bags that created the health risk, but it contributed to it.

Unintended consequences.

The plastic bag example is a case of unintended consequences and most of our actions, words, etc. even if well-intentioned have unintended consequences. I once warned someone about the lies and manipulation of another person, and the person I warned turned around and told the other person causing me continued problems for over three years. My desire to protect the person I gave the information to turned into an opportunity for her and her husband to hurt me and my relationship with several people. This example might sound like a small example but the stress the situation caused contributed to me being psychotic for over six months.

Unintended consequences.

They happen in our lives every day, all around us. There is no way to foresee them or to avoid them without living a completely sheltered life. As long as you are talking to people, going out in public, etc. there will always be unintended consequences.

Unintended consequences.

This reality, these possibilities, this path that we can go down without ever intending to, these ripples we can cause that can go on for miles, over mountains and for years, can create anxiety in people. I know they can create anxiety in me. Even though I have had bad results with unintended consequences, I choose to keep moving forward, but if I am more cautious, slower to make a move, more guarded don’t be surprised.

Unintended consequences can occasionally make you sick and can cause you hesitate before moving forward in case the landscape in front of you is about to burn.

It’s Not Personal and Lowering Expectations

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I need to work on my expectations and taking things personally. I know from years of being on this planet, and hearing the words of some wise people, that making things personal is most often just punishment to yourself. Most things that happen are not personal.

I am in a writing class and on the first meeting when the teacher asked me a question, I told her I have schizophrenia. The whole class heard, and now every time someone doesn’t respond to my homework, or my comments, I think it is because they think I don’t matter because I am just the woman with schizophrenia. Thinking that people’s response, or lack of response, has anything to do with me is self-defeating and ridiculous.

People don’t respond to us because they are busy; they prefer texting, they are shy, don’t want to, don’t need to, are rude, are sick, etc. I could go on with that list for ten more pages, and every excuse for people not responding would be more likely the real reason than it having anything to do with me or my having schizophrenia.

I need to take the advice of some strong women and toughen up buttercup! It is hard to put yourself out there, though and not to receive positive feedback in return – no smiles, no kind words, no words of support – just silence, nothing, nada. It is particularly hard considering the stories/essays/pieces I wrote were deeply personal. I have to remember though, that it is my expectation that people will respond, it isn’t a requirement of them.  I need to keep my expectations in check.

I know for some people, especially those of us who have trouble with isolating socially, it would be easier not to take any risks (this is true of everyone not just people with a mental illness). Not taking risks, means you have nothing to lose. But that brings the flip side of that scenario into focus – if you have nothing to lose, you have nothing to gain.

I think it is so important for people (everyone) to push past their comfort zones at least a little bit on a daily or weekly basis. Those of us who are on the road to recovery need to try to push our boundaries, or our boundaries will keep getting smaller and smaller and threatening to choke the life out of us. Most of us need to grow a little more comfortable trying new things and the more things we get comfortable with, the bigger our world gets and that helps with healing.

I know I can’t completely regain all the functioning I had five years ago (an office job, lots of travel, very social, etc.). But I can work to regain some things and maybe even add some that I didn’t have before. To do that, though I will need to keep taking risks, lower my expectations and not take things personally! It can be done; I know it can. The only thing holding me back is fear and myself. Everyone with schizophrenia has dealt with fear; we are experts at it – this should be one we can easily conquer.

A Look Back Over Three Years

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In March, I celebrated this blog’s third anniversary. In the three years that I have been writing about life with schizophrenia, I think I have tried to keep one message in the forefront, and that is, people with schizophrenia can look, act, care about, and live a life similar to everyone else.

Of course, I have also made sure to point out that everyone with schizophrenia is different. Just like everyone without schizophrenia is unique, so are we, and so is the way the illness manifests in each of us. Those of us who have schizophrenia may share similar symptoms, but how we experience those symptoms and the level to which they impact us varies tremendously.

I hope from reading my blog that people have more of a sense of compassion and understanding for those of us living with this brain disease. The biggest issue in helping is first to be able to relate to us as human beings. We were all born the same way everyone else was born. We all have or had a mother and a father.

Many of us have people who love and care about us, and that would be true if we were in the hospital, in prison or living on the streets. Just because someone has lost touch with reality and appeared to be a loner, doesn’t mean they don’t have family or someone looking for them, or that cares about their well being.

Schizophrenia is not yet curable, but for many people, it doesn’t have to be a life sentence. It is a chronic illness like other chronic illnesses, and it is possible for some people to manage it as such. (There are, of course, people who are medication resistant, or who doctors haven’t found the best or workable combination of medications to help them reach their full potential). And there are others who manage without medication at all (an impossible scenario for someone like me).

In my three years blogging, I have tried to write against stigma. I have tried to write against stereotypes. I have tried to put the most human face on schizophrenia that I possibly can. I have shared some of my childhood here. I have shared some of my heartaches here. I have shared some of my joys, my strengths, and my weaknesses.

I have tried to make myself as three dimensional, and as like everyone else as possible, because I believe before there will be a better treatment environment for the mentally ill, everyone has to see something in those struggling that reminds them of themselves.

This blog is dedicated to those people who can’t show you what they love, what makes them happy, what they hope for and dream about, I can only hope I have been a voice for those people. I want all of our lives to be better, and I hope I have created a bit of that here.

 

 

 

 

Taking a Break

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When I went to bed last night, I had no intention of waking up at 4 AM to watch the Royal Wedding. It just so happened, though, that I woke up at 4:30 this morning, so after I made coffee, and poured a glass of water, I sat on the couch and turned on the television. When I turned on the tv, Meghan and Harry were preparing to exchange vows. I spent the next forty to sixty minutes weeping. The tears were flowing so steadily out of my eyes that my hair and face were all wet. I can’t believe that this modern day fairy tale impacted me in such an emotional way.

When I was a little girl, I can’t remember ever wanting to be something when I grew up. In fact, I can’t remember ever answering that question that so many adults ask little kids as they grow. There were very few Disney Princesses in the early 70’s (Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty are the only two I can think of), and my first trip to Disneyland as a twelve-year-old was a disaster (for the record, I hated it). Because of these things, I don’t think I wished I was a princess growing up. So, that isn’t why the Royal Wedding made me so emotional.

Late this afternoon, I told my husband how I had wept through the ceremony, and I asked him why he thought I had that response. My husband thought it was because the news has been so bad, for so long, and there is so much negativity that the wedding was a chance to experience a love story, something beautiful, and all the hatred and racism we have been experiencing didn’t exist, at least for a moment.

I think my husband is right. The nightly news and bombardment of news on social media are impacting my mental health. Rarely do I see a story that is hopeful, uplifting, a connection between people and our shared humanity. I know that I can’t turn my back on current events entirely, because to do so is to be part of the problem. I am going to commit some of my days to reading stories or essays written by writers that deal with something besides Russia, war, guns, lies, investigations, impeachment, corruption, racism, bigotry, misogyny, etc. I can’t keep up this soul-crushing pace of bad news and negativity and keep a firm grasp on good mental health.

I hope that if you spend a good chunk of time on social media or watching the news that you will join me in adding some soul-enriching writing or entertainment to your day or week. I know taking a walk to the park helps clear my head a lot, but there is no substitute for reading an uplifting story of human compassion, love, selflessness, or heroism. I am going to be returning to my bookshelves with a renewed interest, and after that, I might take a trip to our city’s beautiful library. Hey, that’s a good idea for an outing. I’ll meet you in the biography aisle.

 

The Long Road to Recovery

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I know I wrote about identity recently; introducing and thinking of myself first and foremost as someone who lives with schizophrenia. I’ve thought more about it, and I discovered that the more I concentrate on developing a routine that includes journaling, sketching, blog posts, mini-essays for social media, and a few projects I am working on with other writers, the less I identify as someone with schizophrenia.

I have to say that I honestly think giving people with a brain illness something meaningful to do is an important part of helping them to live a fulfilling life. The more things I add to my schedule (like writing a blog post, or writing a poem, or sketching a picture, or taking a walk) the happier I am. At night before bed, I fill out a journal called, “Every Day is Epic” and I have found that the more productive I was during the day the higher I score my overall day on the “Epic Meter.”

I know that I can’t go back to working a forty hour a week job, and I am not having any luck finding a part-time job that I think would be a good fit for me. So, I have come up with some book ideas (to co-author with other writers), and I think that the book ideas (projects) are a good way to use my time, talents, and produce some income. I haven’t been successful at working on the projects for a set amount of time every day, but I am trying to work up to that.

No one taught me how to live a fulfilling life while managing the symptoms of schizophrenia. I have had to forge a path of my own making, and I think I am getting increasingly better at it. I am sure that therapists and counselors, and psychiatrists know that it isn’t healthy to think of your illness as who or what you are.

I am sure professionals also know that having meaningful tasks to do make a person happier, but they don’t usually spend enough time with patients or clients to discover how to implement those things into real life. Also, they may not be aware that someone thinks of themselves first as someone with schizophrenia before they think of themselves as say, a writer, teacher, painter, baker, cook, artist, quilter, knitter, etc. Also, they may focus on if someone is hearing voices or not, and not how that person is spending their days (like are they sitting around in a room all day with no one to talk to and no meaningful tasks to accomplish).

My goals are to write for two to five hours a day. I don’t know if I can do that, but I feel like it is possible and I am going to shoot for it (maybe starting with a half hour, or an hour at a time). Spending five hours a day at something may not sound like a lot to many people. It would be a huge accomplishment for me, though, and every minute I am writing, I am identifying not as someone with schizophrenia, but as a writer, or an artist or a business partner (with the co-authors of the projects).

I am working my way toward recovery one day at a time, and I think I am discovering some life-changing treasures along the way. I hope we can share the riches together and all live more productive, fulfilling, and meaningful lives.

 

Looking for Support? Don’ t Trust the Web

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Trigger Warning: Suicide

There is so much that is helpful and beneficial on the internet, and there is so much that is harmful and negative. Three of the things I love most about the internet is the ability to network with writers, and mental health advocates/agencies/nonprofits, the access to many university-level classes in writing, and the access to information to satisfy my curiosity or for research.

But like I mentioned before, the internet is not all healthy, rewarding, educational. Two of the things that I find harmful on the internet is the comment section under articles I write (I have written about suicide and had people comment that I should kill myself), and the support groups that are unmoderated on social media like Facebook.

There are several groups for people with schizophrenia, and so frequently I see young women posting pictures of themselves in the groups, and it appears they are simply looking for attention. I don’t see how that is at all relevant to schizophrenia or helping or supporting others. There are also posts that frequently say that the person is thinking of harming their self. I think it is awful to post those kinds of alarming situations anonymously in a group of people who are already dealing with mental health issues. Of course, those posts get hundreds of responses asking how to contact the person, how to report the post to Facebook, asking the person to call a crisis line, etc.

I realize that some people are all alone and have nowhere else to post their pain and their struggles, but it isn’t safe to do that sort of thing on social media or anywhere else on the internet. If you are in crisis, there are people just waiting to tell you to go ahead and harm yourself. There are also trolls that use those rooms/groups to play jokes on people (of course I don’t think it is funny, but they do).

I love the internet, and I am addicted to social media but other than using it to network with people (helping me stay less isolated), I don’t use it to better my mental health. I know that resources are few and money is tight for so many people, but if you are using the internet to get support, or get advice, make sure that you are dealing with a group or people who are safe and legitimate.

Please don’t post about a crisis and expect professional help. If you are having a crisis, please go to the nearest hospital or call your local crisis line. The internet is great and provides so many benefits to our lives but it can also be dark and dangerous, and I don’t want anyone to get hurt.  Stay safe friends.